Hanschen
by GreyTwine
Summary: Spring Awakening Hanschen's life from ages twelve to fifteen. First person!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This fic is from Hanschen's POV, because I wanted a challenge and, hey, why not? It starts when he is a late twelve, and will eventually move up 'til and past Ernst. It is NOT about pairings—there will be multiple people that he hooks up with, and possibly none that he has a relationship with. I know that it moves a tad slowly at the beginning, but I think it needs to. (In other words, keep reading!) Even if you don't like it, please review! (And no, of course I don't own Spring Awakening, I just own the rights to sing it off-key in the shower.) **

I've been finished with my math homework for twenty minutes. On a sheet of paper that I won't hand in, I systematically solve extra equations. I'm working at an unbreakable pace. It's slightly too fast for me, but I like it. I know that it's getting close to supper time, but I put that out of in my mind. Far more important is pushing this pace, winning in this dance of numbers and signs. There are four more questions on the page. I am invested as the problems increase in difficulty and actually become problematic. I am solving, winning, quickening, until—I bite my lip and block out any trace of disappointment as I realize that my second to last answer cannot possibly be correct. I do the problem again, and get the same answer. Drawing in my eyebrows, I retry at an excruciatingly slow pace. I get it right. My multiplication had been off. I sit for a minute: shift my weight, cross my legs, lean up against the wall. It's beginning to get cold, and I let the frigidity emanate through the wall into my back. I know Father will be calling for dinner soon; I am ready to jump up as soon as he does. I let my eyes fall shut and my subconscious take over.

Slightly uncomfortable, I ease into thought of the girls' school that is so near to our own. At lunch today, the teachers let us mingle in the yard, a rare experiment on the social habits of children. Our social habits involved a lot of annoying awkwardness. We are the youngest in the school—twelve, although Moritz Steifel and I are almost thirteen—and no one has yet instructed us on how to act for the girls. My father certainly won't; if he did, he would tell me to stay away from them, that they would only hurt me. My mother, as usual, would have had nothing to say. The teachers have told us nothing; they will tell us nothing. I, however, understand. I know that women make babies, not storks. Not only that, but I know how they make the babies, and what we do to them—do with them. I asked our nurse after Abigail and Friedhelm were asleep. After I promised not to tell anyone, ever, the nurse told me.

Because of this, and because I've seen it, I know that boys and girls kiss. Yesterday, I saw Otto's brother kissing Georg's sister on the lips. Also, there is a certain feeling that one gets when looking at a girl that makes one want to kiss her. Not love, but something much, much worse. The priest says that it is sinful, and that we should never, ever give in to it. This doesn't make sense; everyone that has children can't possibly be going to hell. I think I may be going to hell. I can't help what I dream about; it's not my fault. If it's an exchange, I think I can deal with hell.

A picture of a girl starts to creep into my mind. My father interrupts me with his flat growl.

"Dinner." I am irritated. I sit up, shake my head, and swiftly walk into the kitchen. Father looks up at me, looks through my eyes. "What have you been doing all day, locked up in your room?" His voice is so emotionless that it is barely a question.

"Homework." I don't disengage from our battle of the eyes.

"What subject?"

"Arithmetic."

"And are you doing well?"

I nod. How does he know I'm not lying, like Moritz did to his father when he failed the Latin test?

He gazes for a second longer, and then turns on Abigail. "What did you learn today?"

I see the combination of fear and wonder in Abigail's pudgy face as she plays the game of delving for the right answers to Father's questions. Mother walks in with the food. It is strange-looking and terrible smelling, but I don't comment. I'm sure I've had worse.

Friedhelm, on the other hand, wrinkles up his nose. "What's that?"

Father's head swivels. "Excuse me?"

"It's unappetizing." Friedhelm is proud of his big word.

"Unappetizing." Father mulls the word over. "Friedhelm, you will pull weeds from the lawn for the next two weeks."

"But—"

"One month."

Friedhelm is quiet. I knew that he should have stopped. The last time I did something like that, I was eight. I scrubbed the windows every Sunday for three months.

Dinner is, as always, completely silent. I hate dinner. I can't even think properly in the kitchen. It's stupid, but I always think my thoughts can be heard in the oblivion create by the utter hush Instead of other, more pressing thoughts, I think about today's lesson, so I don't have to study any more Latin tonight. As soon as I finish, Father excuses me and, not quickly enough to be suspicious, I go back to my room, lay down on my bed, and return to my other thoughts.

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	2. Chapter 2

**General eternal gratitude for the reviewers!**

I, for the first time, am without a proper euphemism.

To want to kiss someone is far too strange to think, let alone put into words. It's particularly strange that none of the others seem to want to talk about it. I had foolishly hoped that someone would break the stone wall that protects The Topic from being breached. This, I realized as Georg and Moritz compulsively conjugated Latin during lunch, is unreasonable. I am beginning to realize that, while people certainly are—well, _useful_, they do not generally benefit me.

That was rather nihilistic. Obviously, I don't mean exactly that. That would be strange, and somewhat unnatural. Of course people are beneficial. It's just that often, they neglect to be so in the ways in which I would like, the ways that I thought everyone wants. I would like them to talk to me about something besides Latin and algebra. Clearly, this is ridiculous.

Despite their lack of educational verbalization, observing my classmates frank ignorance is slightly frightening. They seem not to know or feel as I do. For example, when we eat with the girls at recess, the others in my class rarely talk to them. Occasionally, some will connect—those from the older grades, or church acquaintances who's mothers are friends. I, on the other hand, always carry on discussions with the girls. They seem to enjoy me, and I them. Maybe today will be another day that they let us socialize.

It is. I am pleased. It is November, and the wind makes their cheeks raw. I myself wear no scarf, and they seem to be impressed. I generally dislike scarves, although I find myself liking the soft charcoal scarf that Thea wears. The cold seems to have galvanized Thea. Her September calm has melted to November feistiness. Grins and giggles intersperse her speech. I don't giggle back, though I do return her enthusiasm with a slightly tilted smile that I don't bother to straighten.

The conversation turns to hats, and Ilse comments on how utterly warm my hat appears. Thea smiles. "What's it made of," she wants to know. I shrug, although I know my mother made it from our sheep Hulda. Suddenly, I feel the harsh wind through my too-short hair. Thea is examining my hat, blushing and grinning impishly. I immediately swipe for my hat. It seems to dance out of my reach. I step toward Thea, and one of the other girls—Ilse, a loud, pretty one—makes a purposefully breathy gasp. Thea raises both of her eyebrows and begins to run.

I am chasing after her because I would like my hat back. She runs over the gravel, blissfully unbothered by the teachers. The teachers of my school and hers seem to like Thea. She is little and bright and also refined. They offer no chastise as she scuttles around the school building with my hat. Though I am faster than she, she is running ahead of me. I catch her once she has taken a respite under a sappy maple. I swipe back my hat, and my hand hits hers. I regulate my breathing, though she does not. She looks up and into my eyes. We breath at the same moment, and I lean forward and my lips meet hers and now I am really without a euphemism, because I can never tell anyone and I don't know what's happening and we are kissing.

I hear the squeal of Professor Bonebreaker's whistle. It is earlier, I think, than the noise should have come. We break apart. Still, we are breathing heavily. Thea looks panicked, as if she has done something wrong. I know otherwise, but I don't speak. I make the slowest of motions indicating turning back to the school, and Thea quickly follows suit. We walk in silence, the air between us a combination of shame and jubilee. I consider speaking, but can think of nothing to say. She, too, is silent, though she makes the stuttering starts of sounds many times. All of her not-words are mumbled. We part at the gate, and she does not look up at me as she leaves.

I smile at her back.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for taking the time to review! If you would be so kind, I prefer constructive criticism to general compliments. Many thanks!**

"Hello," I state softly in Thea's ear. I feel immediately stupid for not utilizing a friendlier greeting. She looks up to me from her perch on the brick wall. I saw her take her seat here earlier, saw her send her friends off with some flimsy excuse, saw her furtively glance at me and then jerk her head away. Now, I sit beside her, my breath completely even. I am well aware of the teachers carefully scrutinizing us. I am also aware that my voice is slightly deeper as I say, "How are you?"

She studies her mittens and does not speak.

"Thea?" My voice remains steady.

When she looks up at me, her face is an obvious attempt to show no emotion. "Yes, thank you, I'm fine." Her voice is caustic.

I turn towards her. "What's wrong?" My breath floats from my mouth to hers. I am mesmerized. She reels slowly back. "

"You shouldn't have kissed me, Hanschen." The transition from acerbic to stiff could not have gone more smoothly. Now she looks me in the eyes.

I exhale.

I open my mouth to speak, and can think of nothing to say. I face forward, and watch Ilse fascinate Melchior and Moritz. My mind drifts with an aim that I do not identify. I do not allow myself to think of Thea. An indeterminable amount of time passes, though when I look to my right, I am unsurprised to see her there still. Her eyes are tinged with rose. I consider the fact that my silence is rude, and think of a belated response. Before my thoughts are directed enough to speak, the whistle sounds. The harsh screech reverberating in my ears, I stand up and make the mistake of looking back at Thea. She looks like little Abigail after Father and Grandfather had their fight. I quickly turn and stalk back to the school. The walk causes my breath to come much harder than it should. Inside, I busy myself with my book of Latin, reading quickly and comprehending little. The others stare at me as they take their places. I am still aware of my breath, though it is no longer coming with such speed.

I glance sideways to find Melchior staring at me almost reverently. When I meet his gaze, he turns away. I look back down.

"You were with Thea all lunch." His tone is not accusatory, although I admit that that was my first thought. He seems hungrily curious.

I, having nothing to say, nod my assent.

"What was it like?"

I realize that, even yesterday, this conversation would have given me relief. Another who finds women interesting. Someone to whom I could confess my dreams. A kindred spirit.

He's one day too late.

I shrug. "Fine."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing of importance."

Momentarily undecided, Melchior tilts his head. Instead of responding, he prudently turns to his other side to discuss our dialogue with Moritz.

I wonder what Thea's classmates are asking her.

The professor begins Latin. In a rare moment of kindness, he assigns us only to copy and recopy passages that we have committed to memory, and leaves the room. After the obligatory moment of silence, the room bursts into whispered chatter. Surprisingly, I hear a voice directed towards me.

"Hanschen?"

I breath heavily and silently before looking towards Georg with slightly elevated eyebrows.

"You were with Thea all lunch, right?"

Yes, yes I was, yes. Now stop.

"Yes?"

"Um, what were you talking about?"

Does the monotony never end? "Nothing of importance." Melchior shoots Georg a meaningful glance. Georg smiles.

"I won't tell."

Who could he tell that isn't listening? "I told you: nothing of importance." I feel myself bringing the chalk violently down upon the slate. The silence is punctuated only by the sounds of my writing until Ernst coughs and the babble begins. My thoughts are entirely of conjugation.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Melchior and I are the only ones in the classroom this Sunday. He still looks a bit inquisitive, and I am compelled to lead the inevitable conversation away from Thea. Besides, nothing happened between Thea and I. I readily admit that we kissed, but nothing beyond that was even considered. I realize that I was foolish not to expect her silence. If nothing else, I should, at this point, have learned that silence is such things' forum.

Melchior opens his mouth to speak. I consider cutting him off, changing the subject before there is one, until he asks, "Did you kiss her?"

A beat later, I respond. "Yes."

"What was it like?"

"She won't talk to me." I meet Melchior's eyes. His brow is furrowed in a colossally youthful concentration.

"Is she angry?"

"Maybe." It's a fairly decent question, I realize, one that I never fully thought to ask.

"Was she scared?"

"No." My response is instantaneous because for this, at least, I know the answer. She wasn't frightened. Angry, perhaps, or even shocked, but not scared.

Melchior nods, allowing his face to slide into a hunger somewhere between data-seeking and strange. "What was it like—you know, was it…?"

I nod, my movement slight. "It was…" I pause extensively. "I'm sorry, it's difficult to describe. It was… fulfilling."

Curls bouncing boyishly, Melchior nods. As he opens his mouth again, the priest walks in the room and begins lecturing us as if there were a roomful instead of just Melchi and I. He talks about Creation, as he does once yearly, and my face is a perfect sample of concentration, though my mind soars. It lands somewhere in the emotion that I recognize as excitement. I wonder how far I can take this conversation. Possibilities play out in my mind, though I already prune my mental outbursts. Does Melchi dream as I do? Is he aware, as I am, that the stork is naught but a simple lie? What does he know? Of what does he care?

The priest shoos us out of the room, laughing jovially like Father Christmas. I turn to speak to Melchi again, but both of our parents have converged upon us, asking trite questions about the lecture. When I was eight, my father asked me what my Sunday school lesson was about. I told him about Noah and his Arc and I wondered aloud why Noah brought mosquitoes and I asked him whether he thought there would be another flood. He focused his uncolored eyes, asked me to repeat myself, and gave a single-worded answer. He gave the same answer to the next question I asked, and the next, and the next. It was only recently that I understood that Mother and Father couldn't care about what goes on in Sunday school. I am out of their care, and in what I can only assume are the hands of God. Why need they hear Biblical wonders retold for what must be the millionth time?

"Oh, where are the other boys?" Mother's tone is so light that I think I can see through it.

"Absent."

"Ernst Robel's mother says he wants to join the clergy. Isn't that lovely?"

"Quite."

"Hanschen!" I am impervious to the acidity of my father's reprimand. "Answer your mother with respect!"

"Yes, sir." I've long ago stopped mumbling this phrase, and I glare into his eyes while saying it. Melchior's gaze wanders over curiously. I wonder what he thinks of my father.

"As you were saying, Mother?"

"Ah yes, and did you know that Georg plays the piano:? Isn't that lovely?"   
I nod with what I hope appears to be politeness. "Certainly."

My father's voice turns very quickly from acidic to dry. "Let's leave." Mother unquestioningly grabs Friedhelm and Abigail by the hands and drags them away. They screech good-bye to their playmates and search for tension between Father and I. Much to their displeasure, they find it. Friedhelm sulks, and Abigail turns her chin up and squints her eyes.

Once out of range of the chapel, Father turns on me. Abigail cringes. "Hanschen! Need I tell you once more to be polite to your mother?"

"Excuse me sir, for I was unaware of my trespasses."

His face is serpentine. "Apologize."

Mother looks on, almost interested.

I turn to mother and apologize.

Father looks at me violently once more, and finding nothing left to say, stalks off towards home.

Abigail's lip trembles.

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	5. Chapter 5

Hey all

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**Hopeless advertising done. Onwards!**

SIX MONTHS LATER

I hear the faint crunch of bare feet on dirt. I stand up immediately, excuses chasing each other through my head. Even though I'm certain that I'm allowed to be here, there is something furtive about sitting amongst the trees, especially when rain is surely coming. No route passes through here; I had been sure of that when I picked this spot. Why is someone coming?

The noise crescendos, and my muscles tense. I breath as a head pops out from behind a tree. Mahogany hair spews out of Ilse's scalp, and she beams at me.

"Hanschen!" she cries as she runs at me. Her arms spring up and she reaches for me. I step away. Her arms hang in the air. She bounces on the balls of her feet. "I haven't seen you since last year!"

I had barely seen her last year. When I had, she had been speaking dramatically with Moritz. She seems maniacally happy to see me. "What's wrong?"

Her smile disappears momentarily and then, more perverse than I had imagined a girl capable of, she smiles again. "I shan't be returning to school, Hanschen," she stated. Though we were alone, she leans forward and whispers confidentially, "I don't live at home anymore." She reminds me of Friedhelm after he told me that he stole his friend's book. She gazes expectantly at my face. I nod solemnly. I understand. Ilse was too unconfined to be fit to live with adults. I look at her wild hair and her free limbs. My stomach clenches. I know that I can not just leave the world of adults like she seems to have done. My future lies there, entangled with those who have money and with those who have power. I can never leave. My hands tighten. How can it be that Ilse can flee and I can never stray?

"Hanschen," she asks, light and cheery, "Do you think I'm going to hell?"

"Are you sure there is a hell?" I don't know why I ask her this. If she were male, I would merely tell her that there is no hell, and no heaven at that, so she needn't worry. But Ilse is certainly not male, and what I treat her must be seen as respect.

Her honesty bubbles out of her eyes. "Oh, yes. There is a hell, and there is a heaven, Hanschen. You and I are going to be angels in heaven, but other people are going straight to hell. In hell, they make you pay for everything bad you've done. If you stole, you will be stolen from, and if you ignore God, God will ignore you, and if you beat, you will be beaten."

Her eyes are stone statues when she says beaten, and I realize why she no longer lives at home. I'm very pleased that she no longer lives where she could be hurt.

"I agree," I lie.

She is an imp, biting her bottom lip to keep from beaming. For the time, I appreciate she isn't rooted in cherubic beauty but in earthen splendor. Her eyes are the colors of swollen mosquitoes, and it is somehow fantastical. Her blouse catches my eye. The top button is undone, the button and it's hole disconnected. I wish to fix it for her.

Instead, I point. "Your button," I tell her, "has come loose." I am aware that I sound stiff.

She quickly looks down and sees the damage. She doesn't fix the button. "I don't care. Mother isn't here to tell me to do anything about it. Unless suddenly you're my mother?"

The taunt is uncalled for. I only wanted to help. "If I am, then perhaps I should leave."

She looks me in the eyes, suddenly begging and pleading and desperate and stunning. "Stay."

I sit down on the pale dry dirt. Ilse sits beside me at once. There is a moment of silence before she places her head on my shoulder. The entire weight of her hair, her forehead, her brain is on me. I carry that weight. I lift her head off my shoulder and hold her head until it faces me. I keep her gaze. She leans forward and kisses me. When I realize that she hasn't stopped, I kiss her back, drawing her face to mine, all at once fierce. She moves her body so it is on top of mine and after a little while she draws my hand to her bosom, which I grasp. She takes off my shirt and I hers and she unbuttons my trousers and starts to remove her skirt. I gasp.

"It's dark," I say, "and I have to go home now." I do not meet her eyes as I put my clothes back on. I imagine her, her vivid pupils sad and hurt. She says "Wait," and I tell her good-bye.

I run home. I think that if I do not stop I shall cry.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you so much for reviewing! Keep it up! ALSO: I have a new fic going now. It's a bare fic. Yay! Hope you like this chapter! The end of this fic is in sight! **

Melchior, again, approaches me about the arithmetic. He does this every so often to see if I want to be friends. My response has thus far been simply no thank you, and I continue in this tradition. My speech today is acrid. Even I am surprised at the snake-like hiss that exits my lips. Melchior raises his eyebrows in defense, but quickly lowers them and nods at me, thinking he understands that we are intellectual equals and that our lack of camaraderie is thanks to a piddling rivalry. He is wrong. We are not even congruent in the great leveler that is our schoolroom. He shows his assumed sensibility by interjecting seemingly nubile concepts. His attempt at maturity is through rebellion. He has yet to realize that this is the ultimate sign of youth. Once he stops overestimating the nobility of his self-proclaimed wisdom, he may well realize his utter insignificance. I, on the other hand, work in silence. This secures my freedom. I fade away and may therefore do as I please.

The lesson is drawing to an end. The professor re-enters the room, and a hush chokes the student body. The silence would be abnormal if it didn't happen daily. Our slates are collected and I rise to leave. Otto and Georg are conversing animatedly. It is only now that I see the animal-like ignorance in their dull and witless eyes. They, it seems, can trounce on life as though it were an unraveling carpet. Melchior and Moritz whisper urgently, trying to believe that they are being covert. Their tones are important, as if they are discussing something life-altering. They may think that they are. The fools. Ernst is standing wistfully by his chair, staring blankly at nothing halfway through putting his books away. His face is sickeningly hopeful and full of childish imaginings.

I am overcome with a longing to run away.

Temptations to fly stir within me. I refrain. There will be no more running. My walk home is tedious, made none the more interesting by my attempts to space my feet exactly half a meter apart with each step. Thoughts of Ilse pulse against my brain. Almost without direction, my consciousness prevents any ideas from formulating. My progress towards home is steady and unchanging, which, while not enjoyable, is undeniably pleasant.

The nicety of the situation puts me on my guard and, sure enough, Friedhelm soon bursts from the bushes.

"Hanschen!" he cries. His tone is both joyful and fearful. "Hanschen!" His eyes are bright with adolescent purity. "I kicked Robert at lunch today! And professor gave me three demerits! And I have a note for Father! Saying how bad I've been." He reaches me, panting and gazing into my eyes. "Will Father punish me, Hanschen?" He glows like a glutton as his overflowing plate is placed in front of him.

I look towards home. "Yes. But you know that." I look down at him. His pudgy sausage legs are slowly easing into scrawny twigs. He doesn't look much like I did at his age.

He looks up at me impatiently. "Was I very bad, Hanschen?"

I can see that he wants me to assent. "Do not kick." I can see his mind crafting my answer into some sort of disavowal. I grab his shoulder and make him face me. "Do not kick, Friedhelm. Use words. I am not playing. Use words."

His cheeks are drained of their platonically flirtatious nature. He squirms and runs to home, stuffing the note in his pocket.

I set my jaw and continue homewards.

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	7. Chapter 7

**I'm on the seventh chapter? Really? Anyway, SO MUCH THANKS to those who reviewed. Please continue! You might recognize the base content of this chapter…this fic had to get there eventually. **

SIX MONTHS LATER

The cold spring rain drills into my back as I walk to the vineyard. I am in no particular hurry to reach my destination, although it will be rather amusing to see what kind of reaction I can coerce out of Ernst today. I've been meeting him by the wine grapes for three weeks now. He brims over with a tincture of confusion and angst, babbling about his underdeveloped theories and searching for my eyes to glean my approval. I tend to tell him of concepts slightly darker than his own, although nothing that will wholly sully his almost hysterical naivety. I merely suggest that all is not exactly as it seems. He unfailingly crinkles his brow and look down at my knees, trying to fit my statements into his philosophies. He consistently finds that his hypotheses are quite small and unthinking. I am interested in his fascination with creating an all-consuming statement into which to fit the world. Every time we meet he seems to have a new one. They all have the same shortcoming—they assume that a vast majority of humans are caring and sentient beings. He is blinded by the kindness paid to him by both his parents and clergymen. He sees not their pity but their pretended love. Ernst's lack of sophistication never fails to surprise me. I am astounded by his adolescence.

I reach the vineyard. Ernst is all ready there. He rises to greet me as if I am some sort of superior. I lift a single eyebrow. He blushes, a habit I see him constantly struggle to control. His attempts are pathetic. I sit. He sits down across from me and immediately draws his knees up to his chest. Perhaps he thinks that this will somehow protect the emotion that drips so carelessly from his words.

"What do you have for me today, Ernst?"

Ernst glances cautiously at me. "I've been thinking," he states, "That I would like to become a pastor." My mind expands with possibilities. The church is so often and so very wrong. What will make Ernst question? Maybe I should quote Luther at him. No, Ernst is too ignorant of scholastics. He would only think that the language was pretty, if that. And he wouldn't consider Luther's potential truth. Ernst can quote the Bible back and forth and seems to believe it to be true. Of course, he's not yet come up against anything to seriously make him doubt that. "I would be…" he stops, searching for a sentiment. "Respected," he declares, the hint of a question at the back of his throat.

I move a foot closer to him. His eyes widen in terror and hope. "Respect?" I ask quietly. "For living a life of loneliness, of poverty, of—" I slide forward. "Celibacy?" He bites his bottom lip. I consider how ridiculous we must look, alone in a vineyard, sitting close enough to one another to smell the rain in each other's jackets. "Is that really what you want, Ernst? To teach the unquestionable doctrines forever? To obey someone else for the rest of your life?" I have moved closer still. I'm sitting right next to him now, whispering, my breath flowing on to his face. "To never know yourself?"

His breath hitches and I press my mouth against his. He doesn't do anything at first, and then he begins to kiss me as I kissed Thea, as Ilse kissed me. It is somehow different. I am not thinking about our actual kiss so much taking amusement from Ernst's reaction. When we break apart, his confusion seems as pure as the wine at mass. His bent eyebrows contrast with his dropped jaw. He tries to protest, and I laugh at him.

He murmurs, "I love you."

"And so you should." I kiss him again, harder this time. I can feel his few crude defenses quickly failing. I stop before his guard is completely broken down.

"It's getting dark, Ernst. I must be going." He does not say anything as I get up to leave and walk away.

Perhaps he cannot.

**T.B.C.. If I continued into the next part in this chapter, it would be significantly too long.**

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	8. Chapter 8

**So it's been a little while… Here it is. The last chapter. Short, too. Overdramatic. This fic isn't really in my style of writing at all, but it's been fun to write. It would be really awesome if you reviewed. Like, really. Thank you!**

DIRECTLY AFTERWORDS

I know that I am out of sight, and I want to run. I have learned, however, that running is useless. Instead, I turn off the path and wander through the woods, hoping that I am becoming thoroughly lost. I recite equations in my head, going over their determinable meanings and their easily accessible exceptions. I hear them again and again and realize that I am whispering them aloud. They cease to mean anything. What is 'x,' really? Is it a number? A letter? A stand-in? Something indefinable? Unnecessary? Useless? Worthless? Cruel?

I stop by an apple tree and retch on its base. My throat burns and I grab a branch for support. Ernst's spittle lingers with mine on the ground. I try to spit out the last bit of vomit. It's stuck in me. I try to throw up again, but I cannot. I grunt and cough and stomp childishly. I kick the tree.

His words beat my sinuses, frigid pain behind my forehead. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I turn to face the tree. I stare at it, moving my head up and down, taking in every particle of bark. The tree will continue to grow, to produce fruit and make the ignorant happy. People will consume of its apples, gleeful and oblivious, until one day it composes a sour apple. People shan't come back. Slowly it will die, unrecognized, alone. Maybe someone will fell it and burn it to keep themselves warm. Maybe it will fall, having no control over where it lands, never knowing its final resting spot. Maybe I've begun the inevitable process with my acidic vomit.

I look at the tree one more time, squinting and glaring. It will not respond. I laugh, turn around, and walk home. I am not so hopelessly lost after all. Apparently, I stumbled in a straight line.

I enter the house. Father is waiting for me at the door. "Where have you been, Hanschen?" His voice is shaking with anger. "You are late. Your mother burnt our dinner. Have you no explanations?"

My hatred of him surges momentarily, but I do not let it show. I have learned. "Father," I tell him calmly, sincerely. "It was wrong of me to be late, and I apologize. I will do what it takes to earn your forgiveness."

His eyebrows jerk down and then back up when he sees in my eyes that I am serious. "Very well, Hanschen," he says. "You seem to have matured, at least for the while, from your previous stage of babyish sarcasm. Tomorrow, I will talk to you about the family business. Now go eat."

I obey.

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